Old Men With Old Tales
by xXRileyHartXx
Summary: Unferth's now rather ancient only son tells a lost story of the Geats' great king Beowulf to a scribe and a barman. The story of his mother's death, his father's honor, and the triumph of a great king. Rated T for violence. Because it's Beowulf. Any other rating would be a lie.


The scribe's quill was poised, his eyebrows raised. The man sitting across from him smiled. He looked old, weather-worn, and tired, but very clever. His green eyes were warm, but guarded. As though he would only let on what he pleased, no more and no less.

"We will proceed, if you are willing, to a later memory. The war is well-recounted and has grown boring in comparison to the tale which I can tell. We shall skip the violence amongst men for more justified bloodshed, if you find yourself agreeable." The man said in a sort of cracked voice, a voice that makes one notice exactly how decrepit he is, with skin hanging off his face, the colour of the parchment the scribe's quill was poised over.

"Very well." The scribe replied. "I'll write it as you say it, as we agreed. No more, no less." The old man smiled, his grey beard twitching.

"And I shall thank you to…" He thought for a moment how to begin his tale, and then, how to continue it.

"Peace twitched pleasant reins over the land of the Geats. Their king, the noblest hero, and the conqueror of demons, was a careful and wise ruler, having won wars and gained treasures beyond most men's imaginings. Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, the slayer of Grendel and his hell-beast mother; having taken part in a great swimming race during which he slayed nine monsters, was a proud man. One could say that his pride was his biggest fault, for pride can often lead to ignorance.

"The sun rose over the hills of Geatland, all was well in the red light proceeding the dawn. Grass glittered with frost, which the sun was melting into dew. Beowulf was awake, pacing his dining hall with worry, as my father recounted to me," The man paused. The scribe's quill scratched along the parchment for only a moment more before he looked up.

"Sir?"

"I must ask you to have patience, a good story may take a long time," The man said, his beard twitching again with a smile. "Some things an old man has to work harder to remember than he used to…" The scribe rolled his eyes surreptitiously.

"Then at your leisure, sir." The scribe said, somewhat patronizingly. There was another long pause before the man continued.

"My father, Unferth, son of Ecglaf, was part of Beowulf's company, though nowhere near as decorated a warrior as the great king of Geatland. He was as proud a man as the great king, though with far less to be proud of, as I remember. My father was often a bitter man. We lost my mother when I was very young. Coincidentally or not, her death was the first warning sign that Beowulf paid heed to, though there had been many others. As I said, he was a proud man, and his pride made him unwilling to believe that something would interrupt his peaceful reign.

"But he felt it, in the corner of his mind, and when my mother died, he could ignore his dread no longer. Her body was found in a very odd state, even for a victim of demons. Her head, hair and all, was left intact. I remember quite clearly the horrifying vision of a skeleton, picked clean of flesh, with nothing but her head and neck completely unharmed. Her mouth was open in a scream, her eyes wide with terror. That memory will never leave me…" He shivered lightly, but shook his head, and his features went peaceful again from what had been a rather sad grimace. "Let's have a fire, yes? It's is getting a bit too chilled for my taste, and perhaps it will ward away any bad things that might come with the telling of this story, for it is grim, no matter the ending."

The scribe nodded, stood, and lit a fire in the hearth, a short distance away from their table at the empty bar. The only person still inside the slightly ramshackle Inn was the barman and innkeeper, so was busying himself repeatedly with a stained, filthy rag, which seemed to be making his counter dirtier rather than cleaner. He watched carefully as the scribe lit the fire, but decided that he had no need of help. Why work too hard? And he wanted to hear the story. He didn't want to do anything that might make them suspicious and want him to leave.

"Ah. Much better." The old man smiled. The bartender went back to wiping his counter and the scribe sat back in his chair, quill and parchment once again ready for duty. "Now… we were… oh, yes… my mother. Well, she died, as I said. There were no signs of what killed her, no claw marks or skids to indicate she'd been dragged. Most everyone hypothesized that she'd been snatched up and flown off by some new hell-beast. And so there was an outcry for our king, our great demon-slayer, to once again lay waste to something foul. He intended to, of course. However, they had no indication of what they were fighting or where to find it.

"Bodies kept turning up- always with the entire skeleton but the head and neck picked clean. Each face had an unmistakable expression of terror. The neighboring kingdoms began to experience the same sort of attacks, all turning to Beowulf, begging for his help. He was no longer young then, nearly sixty winters of life were on his shoulders. He was still a grand, fine king, but he was no longer the warrior he was when he'd fought Grendel. He was older, tired, with years of ruling resting on him and him alone, having never taken a wife. He had no heir, and weary lines in his face told us that he would most likely never produce one for us, a sad realization for Geatmen.

"But Beowulf was still master of his land, and still a great hero. He had obligations to us. And so he went out searching for any clues, any signs. He would go for a week at a time, always returning for fear of an attack in his absence. He ransacked caves, plunged to peer into the depths of the lakes and rivers, looked high to the sky and to the mountains, and finally, when he looked in the last place he would ever have thought, found it." The old man stopped and the barman looked up sharply.

"Found what? What is it?!" he blurted out. His eyes widened and he slapped a hand over his mouth like a naughty schoolchild. But the old man merely laughed.

"I see I have acquired two for my audience tonight; I am sorry not to have noticed your presence earlier. Come, sit, you can hear it better from over here." The old man's eyes crinkled in a smile as he motioned to a chair. "And bring a few drinks if you would. Meade perhaps? I have done more talking tonight than I often do, and I find I am rather thirsty." The barman complied, looking solemn, as though e had been awarded some great test. It was, perhaps, the influence of Beowulf that instilled such a feeling in him.

The three drank together, toasting to one another's health as was tradition, and the old man took a calm breath, continuing.

"Beowulf was not as prepared as he might have been, entering those tunnels. But here I should explain: There was a network of tunnels he and his troop found, a vast warren- maze-like, and rank with the scent of foul breath and blood. Our great king knew that smell, having been well-acquainted with it in the past, and trusted his instincts to lead him to the creature's lair. The men walked for what seemed like miles underground, in the dark stinking tunnels, which only grew ranker as they progressed and finally came upon the beast.

"At first glance, it was a rather sweet-looking thing. It was furry and its quiet snuffles were rather high-pitched, not quite a snore, and not quite a whistle. But though Beowulf repeatedly motioned for his men to be silent, the always-present shuffling and clanking of boots and armor was enough to wake the beast, which leapt to its feet. It did not make a noise, but glared at them with bulbous luminescent eyes in the dim torchlight. Its mouth bore some semblance to a sucker, edged with rows upon rows of needle-sharp teeth. Its tongue was long and barbed like a lash and it struck one of Beowulf' men, the wound oozing a greenish fluid that no one could mistake for anything but poison.

"Beowulf knew there would be no turning back, the beast was in a rage, having been intruded upon, and so Beowulf took up his friend's lance (coincidentally Unferth's, my father), and, charging at the beast, drove it deep down its open, shrieking throat. Its many teeth latched onto his arm, but he twisted and pushed the lance, his face grimacing with determination and, of course, pain.

"The creature's keening, earsplitting shrieks deafened the men, but they advanced with swords and spears, to try to help their captain. They fell at the beast's sharp claws, though its mouth was otherwise occupied. It seemed that the only way to kill it was already in effect by the great king, and with a final thrust and twist, the creature's scream fell silent and its teeth relaxed. Beowulf quickly withdrew his arm, looking disgustedly at the puncture wounds from the rows of teeth.

"He left the lance deep inside the beast, swiftly hewing its head from its body, that they might carry it back for their trophy. He roared triumphantly, raising the head, and led the way form the cavern, the wounded being carried by the able.

"Beowulf collapsed halfway home, and his men had to carry him back to be bandaged and his wounds cleaned. The poison from the beast's tongue and teeth only seemed to stun or weaken its prey, and after a week of recovery, Beowulf and those of his men who were injured were once again fit for battle, though he had no need to be for many years to come."

The man finished, taking a deep breath and folded his hands, smiling contentedly.

"And now I think I have told his story well enough, and I think that my father and his king would have liked for this tale to go on as I hope it shall from this day forward." He turned to the barman, fixing him with his green-eyed gaze. "And I would like a room, perhaps?" The man paused for a moment, taken aback and only just arriving from the contented stupor of a good story.

"Oh! Yes, Right. This way, then." He led the older man to the counter and handed him a set of keys. "Room is free… if you'll tell another story tomorrow?" He said, grinning sheepishly, some of the more careworn - for still, times were hard on everyone - features of his face falling away, letting his youth show through.

The old man laughed and clapped him on the back. "I shall. There is a story of a great Dragon which I'm sure you would enjoy." And, with a twinkle in his eyes and a surprising spring in his step, the man proceeded up the stairs to his room, locking the door behind him, and preparing for a long sleep. Perhaps the longest sleep of them all, he _was_ ancient, after all and every night might be his last… But it would have been a pity to die in such a nice man's inn, and so he held off for at least one more night and dreamed of dragons, of valor, and of the Geats' great hero, Beowulf.

**A/N: This is a one-shot, unless anyone requests another adventure. I actually wrote this for an English assignment, and was hoping to show that I'm not only capable of smut and lame sweet fanfictions. Though this would still be considered fanfiction of a sort... Anyway, please rate and review, favourite if you like. **

**Thanks for reading! **


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